Chapter 2: The Wild Man Revealed

The Wild Man Appears Again

Early on February 8, 1958, Earl went up the mountain as usual.

He left before sunrise, his breath fogging in the icy air, boots crunching over last night’s frozen crust. Buck trotted ahead, nose twitching as he sniffed the wind.

His hound led the way, pawprints trailing through the powder. Man and dog pressed deeper into the woods, Earl’s eyes scanning for any sign of deer.

The forest was hushed, except for the distant caw of a crow. Earl’s gaze swept the snow for tracks—deer, rabbit, maybe a red fox if he was lucky.

A rabbit, nestled in the snow, poked its head out to nibble dry grass. Buck’s ears shot up and, in a flash, he bounded off, barking with wild excitement. Earl grinned, feeling the old thrill of the chase.

Earl followed. Before he knew it, man and dog had run into a part of the woods he’d never entered before…

The trees pressed close here, underbrush tangled and thick. Earl paused, heart beating faster as he realized he’d crossed an old, invisible boundary—a place his father always warned him about.

Remembering his father’s warning, Earl felt uneasy. But winter game was scarce, and pride wouldn’t let him turn back empty-handed.

He hesitated, glancing back at the faint trail behind. Hunger and stubbornness won out; he pressed on, promising himself he’d only go a little further.

Soon, they chased further, until Earl spotted a cave.

It was half-concealed by a fallen pine, snow piled high around the mouth. Earl’s breath caught in his throat, the world narrowing to that shadowed opening.

From a distance, he saw a dark figure slowly crawling out!

The shape moved with a wary, animal-like caution. Earl’s heart thudded in his chest, palms suddenly slick inside his gloves.

The figure was burly, its face hidden beneath a wild tangle of hair, features blurred and unreadable… Could this be the wild man?!

He squinted, hardly believing his own eyes. Stories about the wild man haunted his mind, every detail suddenly too real.

Earl clutched Buck, crouching behind a thick oak, barely daring to breathe. The wild man legend replayed in his mind—fear, disbelief, and a swirl of emotions he couldn’t name.

Buck whimpered softly, sensing his master’s fear. Earl held him tight, his pulse pounding in his ears, every muscle coiled and ready to bolt.

Only after the wild man had gone, vanishing into the trees, did Earl rise from the snow, heart racing, and tear down the mountain with his dog, not stopping once.

He didn’t look back until the farmhouse came into view, sweat freezing on his brow despite the cold. He burst through the door, startling his mother with his wild-eyed entrance.

So, his father had been right! There really was a wild man!

Earl’s hands shook as he told the story, his mother crossing herself and whispering a prayer. The fear was real now—no longer just a tale told over coffee.

After catching his breath at home, Earl’s worry grew. He depended on these mountains, and so did the whole town. If the wild man stayed at large, someone might get hurt…

He paced the kitchen, gnawing at his lip. The idea of someone getting attacked gnawed at him. He owed it to his father—and the town—to do something.

This was a threat that had to be dealt with! Better to act first than wait for disaster.

He grabbed the rotary phone, dialing neighbors and friends. Within the hour, a crowd gathered on his porch, boots stomping and voices buzzing with nervous energy.

With his mind made up, Earl rallied the young men of Silver Hollow to prepare for a hunt.

They met behind the church, lanterns and flashlights in hand, nerves running high. Some cracked jokes to hide their fear, but most were quiet, knuckles white around their bats and axes.

A group armed with baseball bats and old axes followed the path Earl had taken, creeping toward the cave where the wild man lived.

Their breath steamed in the night air as they trudged uphill, boots slipping on hidden ice. The woods felt tighter, every shadow deeper than before.

“There’s so many of us! No need to be afraid!” Earl called out, trying to sound braver than he felt. His voice echoed, thin in the hush. “We stick together, we’ll be fine.”

They lay in ambush near the cave. When the wild man emerged, they rushed forward!

Adrenaline surged as they leapt from their hiding places, shouting and waving their weapons. Buck barked madly, the chaos complete.

“Hold it right there!”

“Stay where you are!”

Their shouts rang through the woods, sharp as gunfire. The wild man flinched, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender.

They pointed their bats at the wild man, who crouched inside, startled and frozen.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The wild man’s breath smoked in the cold, his body trembling.

In the confusion, Earl studied him: a nose, eyes, limbs like any man, tan skin, dark hair.

He looked human—just battered, ragged, and exhausted. Earl’s fear melted into confusion, then pity.

“This… this is a person!”

“A person just like us!”

The realization swept through the group. The wild man wasn’t a monster—just a man, beaten down by years of hardship.

Those huge footprints? The wild man had no shoes—he’d wrapped his feet in layers of newspaper and bark, making his prints huge and strange. His “burly” look was an illusion: to keep warm, he’d stuffed his clothes with wild grass, bulking up his shape…

The details clicked into place. The townsfolk murmured, lowering their bats, shame flickering in their eyes.

They tied up the “wild man” with rope and led him down the mountain.

They walked in silence, the wild man stumbling, eyes fixed on the ground. Earl felt guilt twist in his gut, but fear still lingered.

Everyone buzzed with speculation about his identity. They tried to talk to him, but the words were foreign.

A stranger? A runaway? Who was this wild man?

The crowd at the edge of town swelled, voices overlapping. Some guessed he was a lost veteran, others a hermit or escaped convict.

They brought him back to Silver Hollow, and word spread like wildfire. Crowds gathered to gawk at the wild man.

People pressed in, snapping photos with old Kodaks, children peeking from behind their mothers’ skirts. The sheriff’s cruiser rolled up, red light spinning.

Soon, Sheriff McAllister—a burly man with a bristling mustache—arrived and took him to the county office to check his identity.

Sheriff McAllister cuffed the wild man gently, leading him away. Earl watched, unease knotting his stomach.

Having not spoken in years, the wild man’s tongue was stiff, his voice a hoarse whisper, words broken and strange…

He spoke a language the sheriff couldn’t understand.

He tried to form words, but they came out rough and halting. The sheriff frowned, frustration growing.

Fortunately, during the investigation, a visiting Chinese-American trucker overheard him.

He said, “He’s from Gaomi, Shandong. His name is Lin Jian.”

The trucker, Mr. Chen, stepped forward—short, stocky, with a battered cap and a gentle accent. He spoke quietly to the sheriff, translating. The room hushed, all eyes on the wild man.

This was the missing thirteen years in the life of a Chinese laborer, a victim of war…

A hush fell over the crowd. Earl felt the weight of history pressing in—this was no legend. It was a tragedy, and it had happened right here, in their own backyard.